“You’re quiet,” she says, her voice carrying that same low timbre it has when she’s not sure if she’s interrupting or checking in.
I glance over my shoulder. “You don’t usually complain about me not talking.”
She leans in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, and for the very first time in longer than I can remember, she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for a fight, either with the world or with me.
“I guess I’m just not used to this version of you.”
My brow furrows. “What version’s that?”
“The one who doesn’t look like he’s ready to burn the whole world to ash just to keep it from getting too close.” She tilts her head, studying me in that way only she can, eyes sharp but not unkind. “She’s good for you, Darius.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah. She is.”
Mary steps into the room, slow, like she’s testing the air, and I can see it—just a little—how the tension in her shoulders has eased. It’s not gone, not by a long shot, but it’s shifted. The sharp edges she’s been carrying since Tessa walked into our lives are dulled now, replaced by something I haven’t seen on her in years.
“You know,” she says, her gaze flicking briefly toward the glass beside me, “I didn’t like her at first.”
“I’m aware.” My voice comes out dry, but the corner of my mouth pulls up, just a fraction.
Her laugh is quiet but real, a rare thing these days. “I thought she’d be a distraction. That she’d make you softer in the wrong ways, that you’d start letting things slip. That we’d end up losing everything we’ve held together.”
“And now?”
Mary’s eyes follow the line of the tree shadows beyond the glass. “Now I think maybe you’ve been guarding the wrong things for a long time.”
The words settle between us, heavy with the truth of it, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest. The one that comes when I think about the years I can’t give back to her. The years where she was the one keeping this house, our lives, the damn name of our family from falling apart, while I was out chasing ghosts and blood.
I see her in my mind the way she used to be: bright-eyed, laughing with her whole face, daring me to catch her in the snow when we were kids. I see her in the moments before all this weight set in, before the Pact and the enemies and the thousand unspoken burdens turned her into someone who measures joy against risk before she lets herself feel it.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” I say quietly, and the words feel raw in my mouth.
Her head tilts, her brow knitting just slightly. “For what?”
“For letting you carry more than you should’ve had to. For leaving you here while I went after things I thought I could fix, and for not seeing what that turned you into.” I take a breath, eyes still on hers. “I miss my sister. The one who didn’t have to think about survival every waking minute.”
She studies me for a long while, and then her shoulders soften in a way I’ve only seen a handful of times in the last few centuries. “We both survived, Darius. And now you’ve gotsomething that might be worth more than that. Maybe it’s my turn to make sure you don’t lose it.”
I don’t thank her—it’s not how we work—but I let the quiet between us stand as its own kind of agreement.
Of course, there’s another kind of pact in play. The one we swore blood to, the one I walked away from but never truly severed.
“They’ll hear about the bond,” she says, giving voice to the thought that’s been gnawing at me since last night. “Cassian, Rafe, Malek, and the others. Every last one of them. And they’re not going to sit back and ignore it.”
“No,” I admit, my jaw tightening. “They won’t.”
“You think Roman will try to use it?”
“He’d be a fool not to. The bond makes her more than my mate—it makes her my weakness, at least in the way they’ll see it. And you know the Pact—bonds are leverage. If they think they can use her to keep me in line…”
“They’ll try,” she finishes for me.
I grip the edge of the desk, my knuckles whitening, the wood groaning under the pressure. “Let them try. But they won’t get near her. Not Roman, not the Pact, not anyone else who thinks touching her will end well for them.” I turn to face her fully. “She’s not just mine. She’s under my protection. That means the rest of the world doesn’t get to lay a finger on her without going through me.”
Mary’s lips twitch, not quite a smile but close. “Then I guess we prepare for all of it.”
I turn back to the window, scanning the endless dark. I swear I can feel Roman’s presence out there, just beyond the warded edge of our land: fox scent drifting in like a ghost, patient and deliberate. The Blood Moon is coming, and with it, the kind of chaos he thrives on. He’s waiting for me to slip, for the bond to become a weakness he can pry apart.
But for the first time in more years than I can count, I’m not planning for the storm alone.
